


An Inkling of Fear

by royal_chandler



Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Imported, LiveJournal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2919932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson hates ink blotches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Inkling of Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published January 2, 2010. Rated M for language, mostly.

Watson isn’t fond of ink blotches, deems them to be unwelcomed disturbances on perfectly good parchment. There’s a place, about a centimeter above his right eye, that automatically twitches whenever ink happens to leak from his pen and bubble against the stark white of his notepad, sinking into the paper like dreaded poison. He can hardly bother with even the mere sight of it, so with curses that don’t quite fit a gentleman, Watson quickly rips out the stained parchments, balls them up and starts a new sheet—a fresh beginning with no flaws.

Ink blotches? Yes, he absolutely loathes them. In result, it makes very logical sense that he would also hate blood blotches as well. They’re unrelenting and brave, harder to get rid of. Blood spills and moves to the surface, just underneath the skin where it makes blooms of horrid bruises—unsightly variations of red and purple. Maroon and deep indigo is quite the nasty item when put together. Watson’s seen worse, of course. While not the most ethical, he's still a doctor, mind you. Technically, it’s not the bruises that bother him but the truth of what does is unsettling.

It’s well into the night when Holmes staggers through the doorway, hand clutched at one side while the other arm hangs as if lifeless. The cuts are plain on his face, bright in contrast to the sweat that’s been mixed with dirt and a black ring is starting on his eyelid to complement a swollen lip. The beaten flesh moves to let out an exhausted whisper of, “Watson.”

It’s far too familiar.

Quick on his feet, Watson moves through the apartment in a haste that’s not particularly elegant. He gets Holmes into a hold, is careful of his midsection, where most of the injuries no doubt are.

For some reason, Holmes always feels the need to explain himself in these situations. As Watson takes him to the couch in the living area, he goes on about unforeseen distractions and the probability of miscalculations. He recalls a new opponent from St. Albans and laced liquor. Watson doesn’t care though so he promptly tells Holmes to shut the hell up so that he can focus on what he’s trying to do. There’s a good bit of protesting but Holmes finally lets go of the story and his stubbornness, allows Watson to sit him onto the sofa.

Watson gives him an appreciative nod, understands that it’s a great feat for the other man, one he would not do for anyone else. He tugs Holmes’ shirt from out of his trousers, is carefully when drawing it up and overhead.

After a few minutes, Watson assesses a cracked rib, more contusions than he's comfortable with, and three sprained fingers on Holmes' left hand.

Watson uses a hot, wet rag to clean up the blood and dirt first, discovers an expanse of even more marred skin underneath.

He retrieves gauze, tape and a local painkiller from his medicine cabinet, is uncharacteristically clumsy with his hands when Holmes lets out a groan of anguish. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just hold on.” The continued pained noises don’t give him extra hands, nor do they help his already hammering heart.

Watson feigns an encouraging expression before returning to Holmes’ side, settling in a crouch before the other man's knees. He starts with the painkiller and pours an appropriate amount into a small spoon, brings it to Holmes’ reluctant lips. “It’s new so it’s not quite favorable. I haven’t gotten a chance to sweeten it yet." He pauses prior to adding, "Now, don’t be such an infant, Holmes, drink it all.”

Holmes visibly winces at the disagreeable taste. “God, it’s fucking tar.”

“Yes because I have such a wealthy supply from my work on street pavements,” Watson retorts as he puts the concoction aside. The jesting makes the situation a little easier, not by much but enough so that he can be strong, what he needs to be at this moment. He reaches to Holmes’ back that had inclined toward the cushions that decorate the couch, “I need you to sit up, no slouching. Seeing as how you’re the one who chooses to throw his body into harm’s way and men’s punches willingly, I say that you should help me, help you.”

“It hurts like bloody hell,” Holmes tells him but does as instructed.

Watson regards him with somber eyes. “That’s life my friend.” He thumbs away new blood that runs at Holmes’ stomach and rubs it into his nightshirt. Reaching for the gauze, he begins to wrap it around his friend’s middle, watching as the angry color there disappears. “The painkiller should start to take affect soon so quit your complaining and just keep still,” he murmurs.

Holmes doesn’t respond, instead he braces his good arm on Watson’s shoulder and watches the doctor in action. He closes his eyes and takes in a sharp breath every time Watson's fingers touches his skin.

Securing the bandages is the hardest part. Bones have to be shifted back into place and there’s a torturous cry every time the fractures lock. Watson isn’t sure who it hurts more because Holmes has a grip into his shoulder that is considerably crushing while water burns in his own vision.

Thankfully, disinfecting cuts is only disinfecting cuts.

“All done,” Watson breathes when he rids of the last bit of blood. “Are you alright?”

Holmes sways to the side, tilts but doesn’t fall wayside because of his hold on Watson. “Peachy, incredibly light-headed in fact.” He sing-songs in a smooth tenor, “I’m afloat on a wind that ventures the top of the world, Watson!”

For the first time since his friend appeared, Watson bares a smile. “Very poetic, Holmes. Are you certain that you didn’t pick up the wrong occupation?”

“As certain as can be, Watson. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere that you’re not.”

“Same, Holmes, same. Are you tired?”

Holmes pouts like a young boy. “Regrettably.”

“Good because so am I,” Watson says, getting up. He goes to put things back to their rightful place, is almost finished when Holmes’ soft voice interrupts. It's unnervingly hesitant and unsure.

“Will you stay with me?”

Watson swallows hard, tries to for nonchalant. “Have you forgotten that it’s my apartment that you wobbled into?”

Even with his back turned, he can _see_ Holmes’ defeated profile, the vulnerability and willingness to be cared for. He puts the medical tape on the third shelf instead of the second, hand shaking.

Damn him.

It’s magnetic, Watson’s pull to Holmes, his inner metal, his blood pulses for this man. Every fucking cluster in his vertebrae is heated with a need to be near Holmes. Watson returns because it’s what he’s built to do—his heart is no longer his own. He sits himself beside Holmes. “You’re wicked.”

Carefully, Watson takes the upper-half of the battered body into his arms, lowers Holmes into his lap in a manner so as not to disturb his injuries. Watson strokes a gentle hand through Holmes' hair.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes claims. He sighs in a way that Watson figures to be content.

“I know. Shh…” Watson speaks warmly, leans over and presses a soft kiss to Holmes’ ear. He travels his lips down the strong neck, traces the red marks there. The stable shoulder is more of a muddled brown so he kisses there plentiful before mouthing at discolorations on the arm. Licking at the bruises, he feels as though he’s cleansing the blotches there. They don’t vanish or mystically fade away, remain scattered on beautiful skin that he’s come to favor but Watson believes that it hurts less. His tongue washes the remnants away, his kiss seals the wound shut.

Holmes shudders and Watson can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Your bedside manner is more than exemplary.”

“And your flattery isn’t necessary. I’m with you and you know that, you moron. Go to sleep, Holmes.”

It's a fear more than a hate. Blotches remind Watson that things can be broken and the idea that one day the ink may run over is absolutely terrifying.


End file.
